


094 - Hangover

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hero Van, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Requesting a hangover fic because I’m currently dying”





	094 - Hangover

You weren’t a huge drinker. A few beers at the pub with friends sometimes. Wine with dinner. That kind of thing. So, the brutal hangover you were experiencing was not only painful in its own right, but was confounded by the rarity of it. You blamed Larry. He was sneaky and was almost always the source of mayhem but sparsely was recognised for it. He had been pouring your drinks all night and in the illuminating morning light you guessed they were not one standard drink per glass. The guys had got back from tour and their homecoming was to be celebrated, he said. You didn’t know why all their other homecomings weren’t so special, nor why, when he’d spent months with them, he was ready to hold a party for the band. Any excuse for a rumble, though.

You tried to block out the light of the day by hiding under the covers. It was too hot though, and the warm and still air made you feel nauseous. There was no winning. Your bedroom door was closed, but you could hear life beyond it. After the months living alone, it was weird to hear people again. You lived with Larry and Van in the house Van bought. Your bedrooms were all small, but you didn’t spend much time in there anyway. You looked around the room for something to help. You had no pain killers nearby; no weed. There was no water. All you could reach without getting out of bed was your phone. 

You weighed up your options. You could message Larry or Van. Which would be more likely to come to your assistance? That depended on which was more likely to be hungover themselves. You tried to remember the details of the night before. Larry mixed his liquor, which never ended well for him. You couldn’t remember what Van was drinking, but with vivid clarity you recalled him standing against the tree in the backyard. His back was to it and a cigarette was hanging from between his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep it from falling across his eyes unsuccessfully. Were you talking to him? Or were you watching him from somewhere else? 

For a million reasons, many unknown to you, you called Van. He picked up after a few rings by saying your name, stretching it out.

“Help,” you whispered. He laughed and you could hear him down the line and also in the next room. He didn’t reply, but your bedroom door opened. You put your phone down and looked up at him. You pouted as dramatically as possible.

“Oh, darlin’, you were smashed,” he said too loudly.

“I might still be,”

“What do you need?”

“Help,” you said again. Van laughed and nodded.

“Gimme a sec,” and he left the room.

You waited like a desert waits for rain. The voices in the rest of house quietened down, and Van returned. He threw a hoodie at you. It was the oversized one he used to wear all the time; the one with The Streets’ logo on the front. You pulled it over your dress. You’d not changed before going to bed. You did, however, note that you were not wearing your bra. Even blind drunk a girl knows the true comfort of taking a bra off after a long day.

“Everyone that was still ‘ere just left. Come out into the lounge room. I opened the windows. Fresh air will do you good,”

“Can’t walk,” you replied. You were serious. The physical energy you’d need to muster wasn’t the problem; it was the storm in your stomach. Movement would surely make you puke. “Too sick,”

“It’s a couple of steps,”

“Please no.”

Van looked at you, and you could see the moment where he made the decision. He walked to the bed, ripped the blanket away, resulting in squeals from you. He picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. The pressure on your tummy was not good and the bouncing of Van’s steps was also very, very not good. You moaned in discomfort.

“Don’t you fuckin’ throw up on me, Y/N,” Van warned.

He put you on the couch and you immediately curled into a ball. You closed your eyes and tried to block out the world. The lounge room was too bright, but he was right - the fresh air was nice. It was cool and clean. You listened as quiet music started from the kitchen. Van always had the radio on when he was home. You wondered where Larry was. You could hear Van’s footsteps on the squeaking floorboards as he moved about the house. A few minutes later he was back near you, kneeling next to the couch.

“Here,” he said. You opened one eye. He was holding out pain killers and a glass of water. You opened your mouth. “Really?” You nodded and stuck your tongue out. He put one tablet on it and you let him tip water into your mouth. You repeated the action, but as the tablet started to fizz on the way down, leaving a revolting bitter taste in your mouth, you started to gag. Van stood and stepped back quickly, laughing. “Are you actually going to be sick?”

“Don’t think there is anything in my stomach to throw up,” you replied. You closed your eyes again, not waiting for his reaction. You heard him leave.

Van’s voice was barely audible from the kitchen. He was talking to someone, but there wasn’t a second voice. A phone call, then. You felt your stomach gurgle with life. You’d be hungry for greasy food soon. You wanted to sleep away the headache first. The pain killers worked, and as you started to zone out you realised they were the prescribed ones Van had for helping him on tour when he got sick.

…

When you woke up it was still light and you were grateful for not sleeping through the entire day. You’d done that only a few times in your life because of a hangover, but it was always so disorientating. Your sleep cycle would be fucked for days.

“Sleeping Beauty,” Van said as he watched you sit up. He was on the second couch, laid out watching The Great British Bake Off.

“What’s the time?”

“Uh, 'bout… 2,” he replied, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check. “Larry is bringing food,”

“From where? Where is he?” you asked.

“Don’t know. Didn’t say much on the phone. Think he probably went somewhere with that girl in the red dress?”

“Why? He lives here,”

“I don’t question him anymore, Y/N.” You nodded. Your head still ached, but it wasn’t as bad. “Do you need anything?” You looked over at him. He was wearing different clothes than those he was in before you fell asleep. Maybe the same jeans, but a clean black t-shirt. He was wearing mismatched socks. One was navy blue, the other black and white stripes. His hair was freshly washed too. A shower for you seemed like an unachievable goal, but the desire for one was next level. You very slowly shook your head no.

“My head is killing me,” you added verbally. Van stood and sat next to you on the couch where your head had been.

“Lay back down,” he ordered as he put a pillow on his lap. You were too tired to argue. He pulled the blanket up around you, and as his fingers started to rake through your hair, shivers ran down your spine. You watched the television screen.

“You know next season isn’t on BBC and they’re losing Mel, Sue and Mary,” you told Van.

“Yeah. Think my mum told me that the other day,”

“But did you hear who the new presenter is?” You waited for him to reply, but he was silent. “Noel Fielding.” He stopped playing with your hair, and one of his hands sat on your shoulder seriously.

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“Nope,”

“That is quality, that is,” he replied. You laughed and knew he’d be happy with that one. He’d loved Noel Fielding for a while, but the crush was cemented when they were on Never Mind the Buzzcocks together. You watched the episode with him and Larry. You’d never get over how legitimately famous he was getting.

“Yeah, I know. You can go back to my hair now please.”

…

The smell of food woke you up. Larry was kneeling at the coffee table ripping open the paper the hot chips were wrapped in. He squeezed out tomato sauce onto the paper, and opened the tub of hot gravy. You sat up just to melt off the couch and onto the floor near the table. They both laughed as you started to pile chips into your mouth. Van left the room and returned quickly with a loaf of bread and three glasses of water, carried clumsily between his arm and body. Larry told him he’d forgotten the butter, and went to get it.

As you chewed through a mouthful of potato Van handed you a glass. You looked up at him as he sat on the floor next to you. “You good?” he asked. You nodded. When Larry returned, Van buttered a slice of bread for you and neatly stacked chips on it. You pointed to the gravy and he poured a little on. He folded it in half and smooshed it together. You demolished it as fast as humanly possible. He watched you with a look that was one part amusement one part pure affection. You only read the amusement, though.

When you could feel a food baby forming just under your belly button, you sat back up on the couch. Van followed you and directed you back into his lap. Larry laid down on the other couch and fell asleep quickly. He’d not slept at all.

“You need anything?” Van asked, his fingers back in your hair.

“No,” you replied quietly. “Thank you,”

“You’re welcome,”

“No, like, thank you for looking after me all day,”

“Easy, darlin’. You mostly just slept,”

“I know, but I appreciate it.”

Van didn’t say anything else. You let him keep playing with your hair. One of his arms found its way under the blanket, and his hand gently traced lines up and down your back.

You weren’t a huge drinker. So, the brutal hangover you had experienced was bad for a few reasons. The night though, was worth it. Van smoking against the tree in the backyard. His happy laugh sounding out over the music. Him tucking you into bed when you couldn’t walk anymore. The day after too, was maybe even worth it. Van’s hoodie and hands. Hot chips and cold water. Next excuse Larry had for a rumble, you were there.


End file.
